The blistering guitar chords pounded in Death’s ears, fueling her relentless pursuit through the shadowy city streets. Music possessed a unique power, a profound magic in its own right. And despite the Creator magic flowing through her veins, she’d take all the help she could get.

Death had to catch the demon before he vanished again. That foul creature’s malevolent form stayed just ahead, always out of reach. But Death couldn’t fail. She refused to, not with so many lives at stake. Not with all the known realms at stake.

As Styx raced through Boston’s city streets, she bobbed her head to the beat. As Death, everything about Styx was heightened, her senses, magic, reaction times, which is why she relied on this powered up state to accomplish the impossible.

Styx navigated her steed through the urban labyrinth, spring winds grasped at her cowl, acting as quiet accomplices in the chase.

Under her, the skeletal horse’s bones radiated an unsettling glow, casting spectral reflections on the road, a haunting dance of hollow luminance. When this debacle was concluded, she’d treat Bony to an extra good scrub with his favorite exfoliating brush.

With every sharp turn, the horse’s hooves maintained their rhythmic sureness. And well they should, for they too were magical. No mere mortal pavement would cause him to stumble. Yet, as they rounded another corner, the horse’s hooves slipped, almost causing a fall.

Valerie chuckled derisively, the sound seemingly discordant with her current state as War. Linked by the Creator's power flowing through them, the Four Pales shared an entwined magic that enabled seamless communication while in proximity.

“Could use some anti-slip, huh?” Valerie’s comment sounds crisp and clear, although they were racing down the street at breakneck speeds.

Styx ignored the comment, planning instead to put laxatives in War’s chocolate chip cookies.

Without breaking pace, Rowan joined in the tolerated teasing. “I could always cast a spell, so Bony doesn’t slide around.” As Pestilence and a druid, it was indeed within her capability to make such a potion.

Besides Styx, Sorcha grinned. “Why did the horse want a construction job?” Famine could hardly contain her laughter.

Valerie groaned. “Please, no more jokes, Sorcha.”

“It wanted to work on its stable footing!” Sorcha broke into laughter.

“Let’s maintain focus,” Styx interjected.

“Very well, our indomitable leader,” Valerie responded, tinged with sarcasm. “Let’s demolish this demon so thoroughly his ancestors will feel it.”

Moving with renewed resolve, the sisters drove their mystical beasts on at furious speeds, their footfalls sounding the coming storm. They’d risk all to see this demon’s plan failed.

 The night cloaked Death, resisting the dawn’s feeble attempt to break, its obsidian shroud a testament to her calling. Scents of light and renewal permeated the city, presaging the morning when oblivious humans would venture into the world, unaware that Death traversed them.

Ahead, a cloaked silhouette, burdened with an unmoving body, fled through the dim cityscape. Light seemed to find the unmoving figure, embracing it as if it were kin. As a child of the fairies, it radiated vibrancy and illumination.

“Remember,” Styx said to her companions. “We have a responsibility to the realms. No matter what happens to us, we need to ensure their safety. That is why the Creator’s bestowed this power on us.”

“We must catch these abominations,” Valerie bellowed. She swung her sword in sweeping movements, the streetlights glowing bright against the metal of her armor. Her powerful muscles shone as she swung her blessed sword, the raw strength and power evident of one worthy of being called War.

Death cringed at the volume. “What do you think we’re attempting!?”

Above, War’s dragon, Typhon, swooped low. His scales blazed as molten fire, capturing the faint light and gleaming like bloody gold.

“I will end you,” War screamed, and Typhon echoed her sentiment with a mighty roar that tore through the air.

Abruptly, the figure pivoted and unleashed a torrent of magic. A sphere of burning blue energy hurtled toward the group, striking a building and melting its façade with a shattering boom.

“Chasing him this way is frustrating—I feel like a mere cat,” Sorcha complained.

Typhon hurled a fireball at the fleeing demon. Light flared, bouncing off windows and streetlights, while intense heat scorched the edges of Death’s cloak.

“Be careful, War. This cloak is my favorite,” Styx snapped. “If you burn this one, you’re replacing it! And not with that cheap crap, either.”

“It’s pointless to admonish her,” Rowan interjected. Her diseased bear, Kiyomi, trundled behind, its fur matted and skin marred by open wounds. As bits of rotting flesh fell to the pavement, they evaporated into noxious mist. The bear growled at the descending dragon. “War will act as she pleases, even if it means incinerating us.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t invited Nyxen to a wrestling match,” Sorcha quipped.

War grinned and brandished her sword, slashing at nothing. “When we catch him, I’ll do far worse!”

Typhon’s wings beat forcefully, sending gusts of heated wind and debris over the horsewomen.

“Watch it, you lunatic!” Sorcha bellowed, shielding her face with a thin wrist. Her skeletal Warg issued a guttural warning. The emaciated creature was all sinew and bone, trembling with boundless hunger. “I won’t tolerate another incident like what happened in Carthage.”

“Your mounts are earthbound; don’t blame me for their limitations,” Valerie retorted, accelerating her pace. But the pursued demon seemed to sense her intent and pivoted.

“Watch out!” Rowan yelled, her hands moving rapidly and her lips murmuring incantations. Dark purple ebbed and flowed around her fingers. The spell asked the trees along the road for help. In return, they stretched their limbs outward.

The demon aimed another fiery projectile at War. Pestilence rallied the spell, and the branches tried to yank the flaming missile away. Despite Death’s shouted warning, the bolt hit Typhon.

The dragon roared in a mixture of agony and fury, shaking the buildings and shattering windows. Valerie shouted her insults at the demon, fists shaking with barely contained fury.

“I will chain you to a stone and let eagles feast on your liver!” Valerie howled.

Digging her heels into Bony’s ribs, Styx urged him to accelerate. Rowan and Sorcha kept pace on either side, while Valerie soared overhead.

Defeat was not an option. Creator magic pulsed in their veins, fortifying their muscles and willpower. They were gods, their names spoken in half-reverent whispers and fear.

Ahead, the demon floated over the street, the unconscious form still dangling lifelessly from its grasp. The demon’s unique energy spiked the air, filling it with heat and radiance.

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“We must retrieve Aelina,” Sorcha hissed. “The Fairy Empress needs us to save her niece.”

“Damn these demons and their diabolical plans for these hostages,” Styx growled.

For half a year, they’d hunted these elusive demons, who vanished without a trace, leaving drained, lifeless victims in their wake. Jaw set with iron determination, Death urged Bony faster, the skeletal steed responding to her mistress's urgency. Failure was not an option. The balance held too much—innocent lives, the safety of the realms, and a rare opportunity to eliminate the demon scourge.

Beside her, Styx sensed Rowan weaving another spell, its potency palpable as it coursed through the earth, igniting the surroundings with sharp, fiery fervor. Dark purple tendrils danced around Pestilence’s hands, cascading like molten shadows.

Magic saturated the air, icy as a bitter wind, deep as an unexplored cavern, and resilient as tempered steel. It smelled magnificent.

“I stand with you!” Styx’s voice cut through the wind. The dark magic unique to her cascaded a great wave and intertwined with Pestilence’s, releasing a blissful scent of decay.

Famine’s unsettling green magic melded into the colors Pestilence held. War plucked a single feather from her spectral wings, and Pestilence deftly wove it into the heart of their spell.

“I’ll need some time.” Rowan’s voice quaking with exertion.

“Don’t worry, sister, I will do what I can,” Sorcha said.

“Promise me you won’t stray for food, Famine,” Valerie warned. “I don’t want to come looking for you.”

Sorcha grimaced. “Not like I can eat any of it. Stupid decaying magic. Preventing me from…” Her voice trailed off as she guided her Warg, Katsuc, into an alley. Their footfalls echoed off the narrow walls, then suddenly ceased.

“Is that spell coming this century?” Styx cast a fleeting glance at Rowan, who said nothing but drew upon more magic.

Down the street, the figure skidded to a stop as Famine burst out from an alleyway. Instead of being a corporal being, now she was half-spirit. A threatening mist of brown and green rippled outward and spread across the street.

On either side of the road, the trees began to wilt, the grasses grew brown and sickly. The demon abruptly stopped, somehow knowing not to cross Famine’s magic.

The sudden movement dislodged the cowl and exposed the villain. With an unseen twist of her fingers, the music suddenly silenced, and Styx was left with the silence before a fight.

"This ends now," Death declared. She would see their months-long hunt culminate at last in this street, this hour. Locking eyes with Nyxen, she charged the Pales, a raging tempest behind her. Everything they protected depended on what unfolded next.

Bony halted, stomping impatiently and snapping at the demon. Typhon descended, pulverizing the road under his bulk. Behind them, Rowan hung back, slender fingers dancing as she gathered power, the spice of her druid magic growing heavy on the air.

The long night's chase through empty streets had led Death to this moment, this showdown, failure pacing hungrily in the shadows. She stood resolute before the leering demon, refusing to let it unleash ruin on all under her sworn protection. Her scythe would taste its vile blood before dawn broke.

“You four are a disappointment,” Nyxen taunted, patting his hostage. Aelina gargled, her white blood dripping to form steamy clouds on the pavement. Wounding a fairy ensured the demon’s eternal damnation. When her turn came to guide his soul, Death vowed to deliver him to the worst fates the underworld offered.

“Ha! I never knew demons were funny,” Sorcha snorted.

“I wonder, Death, have you considered what would happen if you finally unlocked that withered heart of yours? You cannot hide from fate forever. We’ll find the key that awakens what you have buried away soon enough.”

“Enough talk,” Valerie retorted. “You’re all killers, and not the commendable kind!”

“Here! Here!” Styx shouted. “We’re going to end you and all your followers.”

Nyxen laughed. “You’re welcome to try. Centuries have passed and you haven’t even scratched one of us.”

"That’s because you’re all cowards!" War yelled, launching herself off Typhon's back, spectral wings extended to catch the air and guide her descent. "You hide instead of facing us."

“You’ll languish in the underworld with the cursed until the Creators stop time!” Death added.

“By the Creators! Let blood fall!” War’s battle cry echoed as she bore her toward Nyxen.

Nyxen shrugged and let Aelina drop to the pavement. She landed with a sickening crunch and lay motionless. A pool of white blood slowly spread. Styx clenched her teeth; such treatment was unwarranted for any creature—well, almost any.

“Embrace the void!” Death hollered, rushing to join War.

A twist of her wrist conjured a scythe into her grip. Carved from the bone of a wendigo, which finally perished under northern skies, felled by warriors after a long hunt. The blade was underworld-forged, its iron culled from the blood of men who died after experiencing no success in life.

Nyxen smirked, his magic built around him, a strange blue mist that smelled like tainted hope. Death stared, dumbfounded, as he pulled a sword from his own thigh. Boiling blue blood dripped down the metal, melting the pavement upon contact.

Poised for battle, Nyxen’s weapon gleamed menacingly. Still, Styx had no intentions of backing down.

With a primal roar, War dove towards him, her blessed blade singing with a thirst for blood. Death smiled when its eager cry for blood reached her ears.

She charged, her scythe carving a deadly path. With an unnatural ease, Nyxen parried both attacks with ease. Both weapons clashed with a discordant twang.

A numbing vibration traveled down the handle, momentarily numbing Death’s elbows. She gritted her teeth, aware that mortal bones would shatter under such force. But she was a god, not a fragile mortal.

With a quick maneuver, she broke free from Nyxen’s hold. As War rallied for another attack, Death lunged forward. Yet Nyxen deflected the scythe inches from his face, his grin turning macabre.

“Remember, you are no match for demonic strength!” Nyxen held his blade high.

“You are nothing but specks of dust!” Styx retorted.

“I am a Valkyrie! I am WAR!” War cried, vaulting skyward. Her wings spread wide as she dove. “This will not be an easy victory.”

Snarling in rage, War ignited her sword with poison fire. Nyxen dodged the blow narrowly, the flames singeing his cloak. Death swooped in low and hooked his legs with her scythe. He crashed to the ground.

Sorcha stayed where she was, holding her hands outward. The rotting magic she contained encircled them. The demon hissed when his hand came in contact with that foul rot.

Nyxen jumped up, his sword tracing a deadly arc toward Death’s chest. She parried the strike with the shaft of her scythe, and the impact jolting her bones. War executed an overhead slash, but Nyxen evaded it and grinned viciously. The battle had only just begun.

“You and your realms are pathetic,” Nyxen spat. “We’ve studied your magic for centuries and found you wanting.”

Nyxen circled, feinted to the left, and then struck right, his crimson blade cutting across War’s thigh. “Your realms will fall to us. We’ll eradicate your pitiful magic from every corner of every realm, known or unknown.”

War staggered back, blood pouring from the wound. With a precise blow, his blade bit at Death. Death staggered, letting out a cry as her cloak tore. She sensed her own purple ichor oozing down her skin.

Seizing the opportunity, she mustered her full strength and thrust the base of her scythe into Nyxen’s chest. His ribs cracked under the force. “I am Death! You are unworthy of conquering me!”

Nyxen roared in fury and swung his sword, pushing Death back. She parried each blow, but the reverberation jarred her arms.

In a burst of unholy speed, Nyxen struck Death’s cheek with a backhand. Pain surged through her as she fell to the ground, her mouth filling with blood. She spat out purple blood, and it sparked as it struck the pavement.

“I am a demon prince. My blood is ancient—older than you, this place, or the magic in your veins!”

As Nyxen stood over Death, poised to strike, a piercing cry rang out. War burst from the darkness, spectral wings driving her sword towards the gloating demon. Her blade sent him skidding away with a clash.

In one smooth motion, Death sprang to her feet, scythe at the ready as War landed lightly next to her. Wings shedding eerie light, War raised her sword again, the razor-sharp edge hungry for more violence.

Together the two sisters advanced, Death's scythe carving deadly arcs through the air with each step. They pressed their attack as Nyxen struggled to mount a defense alone against their combined fury.

Nyxen channeled his power; his wounds healed at an unnatural pace. Roaring, he met their attack. His blade clashed with War’s, emitting sparks. Death twisted low, but Nyxen grabbed the scythe shaft and tossed her aside. Though she tumbled, she maintained her grip on the weapon.

War continued her assault, her blade descending in a flurry, Nyxen parried each strike.

“We must end this now,” Death declared, standing up. War touched down beside her, wings retracting. United, they advanced, a remnant surge of divine power coursing through them. Today, Nyxen would fall.

I’m ready, Pestilence said.

Death sensed it—the surge of magic Rowan had amassed, a volatile force on the brink of release. This provided their opportunity to bring the combined might of the Four Pales to bear on Nyxen.

“We are the four Horsewomen of the apocalypse! No demon will concur us!” Death yelled.

With a tortured cry, Pestilence unleashed the druid spell. Light seared through the darkness, turning night into blinding day. The acrid smell of ozone filled the air, and raw energy tingled on Death’s skin. Cracks in the pavement radiated intense heat, and windows transformed into molten fire.

The volatile orb of magic rocketed toward Nyxen, sparking and crackling. The demon braced himself, raising his sword in a futile gesture. With a resounding explosion, the spell struck his chest, and the light bathing him in everything he opposed.

Unable to bear the searing energy, Death turned her back, her flesh singed by the heat. The glow etched afterimages into her vision. She blinked hard, struggling to clear the distortion.

“Did we get him?” Famine inquired.